


ice dreams and fantasies

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: the (dragon)wolves of winterfell [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Jon Snow is King in the North, Married Jonsa, No spoilers for season 07, Post-Season/Series 06, R plus L equals J, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sansa-centric, The North remembers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 18:44:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12018774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Jon reveals a secret to Sansa, and she must now make a decision on not only the course of her life, but that of all their children. She must choose wisely, with her head and not her heart, but of course, the heart has a way of getting itself involved, regardless.(It is necessary to read part one of the series first.)





	ice dreams and fantasies

Their chambers were warm and recently dusted; Sansa could smell the sweet citrus of the lemon rind which had been grated into the cleaning water. That was an indulgence they had only recently been able to afford; Winterfell’s coffers were full, thanks to the clever policies the Starks had implemented with Bran’s insight, before he had abandoned them for his dream-walking Beyond the Wall. Sansa sighed at the clean scent, content on a cosy, cloudless summer night such as this, to let the ghosts of her past fade into the background. The thick curtains were drawn; several candles cast their rosy pools aglow about the room, the hearth opposite her fur-covered chair was empty, because the hot springs kept the Royal chambers warm, even in the darkest chill of winter, and it was nowhere near that bleak temperature at this present moment. On the small oak table beside her, Sansa had placed two goblets and a decanter of wine. Impatiently, she was waiting for Jon to return to her. He’d recently returned from the Gift, and there had been a distance between them which Sansa had not anticipated, when he arrived. Usually he was so warm and loving, when he was overly formal it jarred her to the core. But Jon had still kissed her pale cheek, and promised to see her after he had put their children a-bed with thrilling tales. Sansa had smiled broadly and hoped he could not see the worry that was hidden beneath it.

 

Jon had grown into a man who believed women could be fierce warriors and leaders in their own right, and yet he was often still reluctant to share ill tidings with her, for fear of harming her with them. Sansa appreciated his honour and chivalry; Jon was the truest knight she had ever known - though he was no Ser – but she did not approve of his reticence. She had faced many horrors in her young years; she doubted any word he brought her would be worse than facing the truth of the White Walkers, Baelish’s many betrayals or her horrific marriage to Ramsay Bolton. There were many things Sansa had been scared of in her life. But none had seemed more irrational than losing Jon’s love. Could it be possible he was no longer so enamoured with her? He who had been so devoted, who had ignored the disgust of their enemies and bannermen alike, to marry a lady many still believed to be his sister, in blood and truth, regardless of their acceptance of Jon as the last Targaryen.

 

Now and again, Sansa glanced at her fur-covered bed and considered crawling into it. But each time she convinced herself to wait a moment longer, just a little longer. Jon would join her soon. She was being foolish. Hadn’t Jon proven his devotion a hundred times over? With each kiss, and gift, and solemn promise kept. Hadn’t he stood beside her with every decision she made, even those he hated, and could have easily overturned, being her King? Hadn’t he welcomed their children after she brought them into the world, with tears of joy in his Stark grey eyes?

 

She dropped her head to regard the sewing she had been neglecting in her lap. Resolved to set aside her childish fears, a slow smiling air grew about her. The dip of Sansa’s fiery head as she bent over the fabric was curiously tranquil, for a woman who had been plagued with worry. But she knew in her heart it was only mothering irrationality. Her soft hands picked up her embroidery and recommenced their work, resting on her swollen belly. She was soon lost in the familiar rhythmic strokes of her hands, up and down, threading the wool with ease.

 

Ghost rumbled, his slight noise the only indication she received before the heavy wooden door was opened, and Jon stood before her, in his boiled leather armour and heavy furs. Jon did not often go without armour, regardless of the peace which had settled over the realm under his rule.

 

Sansa set aside her sewing, stood up, and went forward to greet him properly, with a lingering kiss. Jon smoothed his hands down her arms before lightly stoking her stomach, gentle with her, as he always was, but especially so when she was with child.

 

“My dearest heart,” Sansa murmured, pulling from their kiss to stoke his bearded cheek and look upon his dark eyes. The sorrow she found there made her heart sick.

 

“Sweetling,” Was all he said; was all he could bring himself to say. Sansa felt tears welling in her eyes, but stubbornly refused to let them fall. Someone must be dead, for Jon to be so distressed, but she would do herself no good speculating who or why.

 

Wordlessly, she pushed his furs off, and began to unclasp the first layer of his armour. When she was satisfied he could deal with the remaining layers, she wordlessly gathered the thick fur-lined pelt she had sewn into a cloak for him, many years hence, and hung it in their closet. Then she walked to her table and poured them both a generous drink. Soon she was back in her chair, quiet and expectant; Jon in the other, opposite, gripping his goblet with both hands.

 

This was usually such a blissful time of day. Sansa knew Jon appreciated sharing her company in silence, whether in the godswood, or out riding, or laying in one another’s arms. She loved to luxuriate in his presence, and to feel that warm male glow he exuded, powerful and strong, but so vulnerable beneath. She loved him for the way he sat in his chair, upright with authority, for the way he strode through the door, or moved calmly across a room, a graceful predator with nothing to fear. She loved the dark, burning passion in his eyes when he made love to her, the tilted quirk of his mouth when he smiled, the silence of his fatigue, and the depth of his heart.

 

Then, Jon did an unusual thing. He hunched in his chair, and rubbed his brow with one hand, as though to relieve an ache. Without a word, he drank down half of his wine in one undignified gulp, leaving Sansa staring in surprise. He paused, leaning even further forward, and then got up to refill his goblet.

 

“I’ll get it, my love-” Sansa began, mildly alarmed, but unwilling to show it. Jon had never been a heavy drinker, and he preferred ale and mead to wine, but Sansa had been craving the wine because of the babe. She had quite forgotten Jon would have preferred a second choice of drink until it was too late. Being Queen, Sansa could easily have sent for a page to collect something from the cellar, but she had decided not to bother the kitchen staff too much lately, what with all the preparations for tomorrow’s feast, to celebrate Jon and their eldest son Ellon returning safely from the Gift.

 

 

Jon ignored her offer, though, and pulled the decanter out of her reach. When he sat back, Sansa noticed his goblet was almost full to the brim with thick red wine, and was horrified to remember Tyrion Lannister’s stubby fingers clutching onto similar prizes in King’s Landing. She pursed her lips in displeasure, but shook off her memories though sheer determination.

 

“Dearheat, should we call for meat and cheese?”

 

“No.”

 

Sansa could not contain her flinch at Jon’s brusque tone, but he did not notice; he was staring into the cold empty hearth, through the blackened stone to something else entirely. She watched him sip the dark, rich liquid, and felt the babe inside her kick mercilessly.

 

“You must be hungry, my love. You arrived after dinner, and Pod told me you sent runners from the kitchens to all your travelling party but took nothing yourself.”

 

Jon said nothing, so Sansa bent her head again, and resumed her sewing. She did not wince when she pricked her finger and blood welled up; merely placed the bloodied skin to her lips and sucked the pain away. Each time Jon lifted the drink to his lips, she heard him swallow and waited for him to speak. But he did not.

 

“Dearest, don’t you want to try a little cheese? The goats have been exceptionally fecund, or so Martyn tells me, and we have creamier, thicker truckles because of it.”

 

“No,” Said Jon.

 

“If you’re too tired, perhaps we should retire then. It’s early yet, but we can rest together and perhaps you need the extra sleep anyway; you must be weary, from sleeping along the road.”

 

Sansa recalled her time sleeping outside all too well, though it had been winter then, and the ground was infinitely harder because of it. Her eyes roamed over him, searching for an answer, a smile, a brisk nod, but he made no sign.

 

“Well,” Sansa continued, “I shall send for some cheese and bread first.”

 

“I don’t want any food,” Jon insisted.

 

Sansa shifted uneasily, paranoia nipping at her heels like a winter blizzard, threatening to bring her crashing to the ground.

 

“You must have supper, Jon. Think what the servants will say, if you begin to skip meals. You know how walls talk. I won’t have the smallfolk thinking their King is fasting or some such nonsense, or rumours that our cooks are not adequate.”

 

Jon sighed, but no words passed his stubborn lips. Sansa fought the urge to stumble from the chair and shake him. It would do no good, regardless. When Jon needed time to form a speech, nothing anyone could do would motivate him to say a word, until he was ready. It had ever been that way, even when they were small children.

 

“I’ll call for it anyway, and perhaps in the hour of the wolf you will wake with hunger on your lips and thank me.” She attempted to tease, but her japing tone was stifled by his refusal to meet her eye.

 

She stood up, and placed her sewing by her own disregarded drink.

 

“Sit down.” Jon whispered, “Just- just sit, Sansa.”

 

It wasn’t until that moment that she realised he hadn’t said her name, not once, since he returned home. He’d greeted her as ‘my queen’, and said little enough to her since, and never used her name in any of it. The uneasy feeling in her belly grew, as she carefully lowered herself back into her chair. She watched him with large, bewildered blue eyes, but he was staring down at his goblet, motionless, like a statue in their crypts, immovable stone.

 

“What is it, Jon?” she murmured, too afraid to speak up.

 

He tilted his head back, so the light from the burning candles sliced through his face, leaving his chin and mouth in shadow, his dark, stormy eyes glowing eerily in the light. Ghost scuffed his paws on the floor, blissfully chasing rabbits in his dreams. Sansa’s stomach rolled in disapproval, as her heart pounded in her chest.

 

And at last he spoke; it didn’t take long to tell her, only a few minutes, and she sat very still, watching him in a kind of daze, horror creeping across her beautiful features as he talked, moving further away from her with every word. She did not notice the tears dripping from her icy pale face, nor the way her hands clenched, nor indeed her forgotten sewing, as it drifted from her lap onto the cold stone below.

 

“Sansa,” his soothing tone drifted across the chasm to her, “There’s nothing to be done, now. I’m sorry you had to find out this way; I’m sorry for many things, but I cannot be sorry for her. I hope you can understand why I had to bring this… complication into our lives. Honour would not allow me to do otherwise.”

 

For a very long moment, Sansa could do nothing but stare at the honest, solemn face she adored so much, the dark hair lined with silver snow she enjoyed feeling between her fingers, the lips she loved to kiss. It was a shock to her, how much she wanted to tear into that beloved face with her claws, until it bled. And at once, she began to laugh, loud, wild laughter, hysterical shrieks that bounced off the stone walls and echoed through the night.


End file.
